


Says to himself

by havisham



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU
Genre: Emotional Baggage, M/M, Porn With Plot, emotionally crippled billionaire seeks dead sidekick to make him whole again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Says to himself<br/><i>The boy is no good. The boy is just no good.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Says to himself

**Author's Note:**

> LOOK, FANDOM. I wrote porn based on a poem by Richard Siken. _WILL YOU LOVE ME NOW?_
> 
> No? 
> 
> Fine.

_**The boy’s no good.**_

Although he has to to stop calling him a boy, because he’s not, not anymore, and thinking about him in that way just encourages sentimentality. And does nothing to aid in the apprehension of a dangerous and wanted criminal. 

(Even before Bruce met him, Jason had stopped being a child.) 

He tries not to draw any similarities between Jason and himself, in that particular regard.

Or in any regard.

It is _not_ a rewarding line of thought.

There’s interference on the line, and he has trouble making out Oracle’s voice through the growing static. “Four blocks north, B, you got it?” 

“Got it.” 

Sentimentality has _no_ place in all of this.

 

He feels the blow before it lands, anticipates it, compensates for it. Red Hood lands heavily on the pavement, and Batman won’t — can’t help him up. Not that he needs to, because the boy springs up, laughing, like it’s nothing. “Never could get the drop on you,” he says, a touch ruefully. 

“Jason,” he — well, _intones_ , because he can’t help it, never could, not since — the day. 

He had been so light, you wouldn’t think to look at him before. But he had been so light. Lifeless. 

Maybe, one day, Jason’s name will lose its terrible power over him. 

(Today is not that day.) 

The knife is out, dully glittering in dim light of the alley. He is so quick to hurt, Jason, he always was. And no, it’s not longing he feels now, never that. 

(He can’t fix him. He _shouldn’t_ try--) 

It’s not like it was before. 

When they fight, and it’s not like sparring in the cave. It’s not practice, nor is it as … Predictable. He doesn’t have anything left to teach Jason, and nothing the boy is willing to learn.

 

He buries a stray twinge of admiration deep. 

_**You, the now familiar whipping boy** _

But when Jason pushes him back into the brick wall, he willing to stay, a little. To hear him speak his mind. 

Not that it matters, but —

“You visit everyone — _the fucking Outsiders_ — but not even a little catch-up with me, Pops?” 

He doesn’t ask — _how did you know?_ The rumor must have gotten out. People talk, even superheroes talk, and there’s always someone to listen.

He considers a steady silence, which is always an option. 

Instead, he asks, “Are you still killing people?”

A reasonable question, given the circumstance. 

Jason bares his teeth. “Are you still doing everything _but?_ ” 

Bruce says, each word bit off roughly, “Then we’re caught up.” 

But that doesn’t shut Jason down, not at all. Robin is supposed to be irrepressible, after all, and Jason was always that. Irrepressible. 

Now, Bruce could break free, easily. He could, at any time now. But Jason is so close. He’s letting his hair grow long, falling against his face. It’s straighter than it had been before. (He straightens it?) His helmet’s gone, and today he isn’t wearing a mask. . 

Jason is still rattling on. “You know, we coulda swapped stories.” He gives Bruce a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You had a _beautiful_ service. Everyone cried.” 

The boy’s a liar. 

(As well as killer.)

“You went to my funeral?” 

Jason’s breath gusts across his face, minty gum and stale coffee mixed in. “No. _Fuck_ no.” 

He doesn’t. He doesn’t want _this_. So. 

He pulls Jason in to a kiss, and doesn’t wince when the boy bites down hard against his lips. He doesn’t soften, not an inch. Love (yes, love) is as violent as anything else in their lives. When Jason pulls away, he feels disappointment that he can’t quite quash. 

Jason says, tonelessly, “I read about it in US Weekly.” 

_The press had been there at Jason’s funeral, gathered around the small Catholic church that he had been christened in, fifteen years before. They had crowded the cramped courtyard, shooting the breeze until Bruce had hurtled past, ignoring their shouted questions._

_It had been an interesting enough story. Sure, kids died every day, especially in Gotham. (Stray bullets don’t always end up in walls.) But a millionaire’s son? Adopted or not, it was news._

_He remembers it raining, though the reports had all but guaranteed a clear day. That shitty Gotham weather. Never disappointed._

“Jason, you could come home --” 

“Uh-uh, no. Jason, _son,_ come home,” his voice takes up rasp that makes Bruce blink, under his cowl. “You don’t _get_ to talk to me like that. I’m _done_ being this family’s whipping boy.” 

 

_He had to be the one to give the eulogy._

_Even by Batman standards, it was terse._

_By Bruce Wayne standards, it was unusual in all sorts of ways._

Jason bucks against Bruce, hard and fast. Rough. His mouth is a red wound against the black of Batman’s cape, which is — still is — big enough to swallow him whole. They don’t talk, not for this. Jason’s leather jacket is puddled on the ground, his knife knocked away.

The boy is beautiful (still), and there’s still something about him that licks at Bruce’s heart. 

(And bites at his throat.) 

It’s not that Jason is unarmed, he’s _gun-crazy_ , a sad reflection of society that's seen him dead and buried again, but now Bruce has him in in his arms, flickering and raw, and precious in ways Bruce can’t even articulate. He never could. 

Now is not the time for talking. Or thinking. 

But it's right. 

Jason paws at Bruce’s crotch — he was never _subtle_ , his technique was that he didn’t have one — but it’s not something Bruce — or Batman is not willing to do. Right now.

 

 ** _Desire driving his hands right into your body._**

_The clot of dirt hits the coffin with a dull thud. It was his duty.  
Jason had no one else. _

Bruce has trained himself away from this. From this sort of need. (From every kind of need, but this sort especially.) So when he pulls Jason against him, and buries his face against the boy’s scorched earth hair, when he thrusts into him, he promises that this is not for him. 

Surely, it’s all right if it’s not for him? 

His gauntlets dig into Jason’s hips, marking them. 

(His, his.)

Jason hisses profanities that are shaped like endearments. 

They get lost in the dark. 

_**You wanted to think of yourself as someone who did these kinds of things** _

Finally, Jason pulls away. It’s not a sense of loss Bruce feels. 

He should be used to losing Jason by now. 

He’s gathering his things, pulling on his jacket, hunting for his knife. Batman tenses, ready to fight (again, but this time, _do it right_ , don’t let him get away, not again --) but Red Hood makes no move to attack. Instead, he stands, shrugs. 

“I started on the counseling you wanted me to get. Couldn’t stick to it. The therapist kept assuming you were a priest or something.” 

He’s laughing at his own (extremely distasteful) joke. 

He shoots the grapple, and pulls away from the ground. 

He’s gone. 

_He hadn’t lingered by the gravestone, which was a stone’s throw away from where his parents rested. He said to Jason, to no one._

“Come back.”

(It’s a pathetic sentiment.)

He’s glad to be alone right then.


End file.
